About the Weather
by TYRider
Summary: Sherlock and John visit the States and discuss the weather and Sherlock's comical reactions to it. It's just a plot bunny that wouldn't leave me alone. Fluffy oneshot. No slash. Enjoy!


**A/N: Just a plot bunny that wouldn't leave me alone. Meant to post it back in Octorber when I was in Georgia and experiencing similar weather conditions. Anyway... please read, review, and enjoy! :)  
Disclaimer: As always, I own nothing.**

Sherlock looked out the window, taking in the landscape with a sneer. It was positively cheerful outside. The sun was shining brightly, too brightly with not a cloud in the sky. There hadn't been a drizzle or shower in more than a week not even so much as an overcast afternoon or a foggy morning. The grass was still green and the trees had barely begun to change colors. Sherlock just knew that if he stepped outside he'd find the temperature more than a little warm and the air humid.

Dreadful. Absolutely _dreadful._ It was like the entire place—weather and vegetation included—was deliberately trying to annoy him. And damn if it wasn't succeeding. Worst of all the heat was so bad that it rendered his Bellstaff not only superfluous, but downright uncomfortable. He'd literally started sweating the moment they stepped off the private jet.

It did nothing to improve his mood that John took to the climate like a fish to water, shedding the woolly jumpers and looking more comfortable than Sherlock had ever seen him in London.

"It's October. _October, _John!" Sherlock said dramatically, spitting out the word like it was poison. He turned from the window with a huff and flopped heavily onto the couch across from where John was siting in a armchair that looked a lot like one of his cream-colored jumpers.

John eyed the perturbed detective warily. "Yes, I am aware of the month, Sherlock." He ventured carefully.

An exasperated sigh came from the direction of the couch. John rolled his eyes and tried to go back to his paper and ignore Sherlock's dramatics.

"It's October and it's _hot._"

"This again?" John put down the morning paper, regarding it as a lost cause.

"Yes, well, it's still hot isn't it?" Sherlock stuttered angrily, casting a longing glance at his great coat, which had scarcely left it's peg since they'd arrived in the States two weeks ago.

John just rolled his eyes.

"Why did it have to be _Georgia?_" Sherlock whined, pushing the heels of his hands against his eyes. "Of all the bloody states of America why did Mycroft have to send us to _Georgia. _During a _heatwave_. In _October. Why?_ Why not Washington or Michigan or Maine or New York or somewhere decent enough to have chill in the air this time of year?" He demanded, suddenly sitting up and ruffling his curls in frustration.

John tried—unsuccessfully—to suppress a smile.

"How do people live like this?"

"Air conditioning." Was John's dry offhand reply. "That and the fact that it's kind of nice once you get acclimated." John continued. "Kinda reminds me of the better months in Afghanistan."

Sherlock groaned and glared at John, "Mycroft was right. You do miss it." Sherlock wasn't sure which thought pained him the most, that Mycroft was right about something or that his flatmate actually missed living in a war zone.

John just shrugged. Then, smiling said, "You know some people actually choose to live in a subtropical climate."

"If I had ever wanted to move to a subtropical climate I would have thought better of it, realized I was delirious and had myself committed."

This just made John grin all the more. "_I _actually like it here. The weather's pleasant, the people are nice, the food tastes good even if it's not good for you, and I'm enjoying the change of scenery. Besides, the case _has _been interesting."

Now more annoyed than ever Sherlock jumped up and began pacing the small living room, arms waving about wildly. "The weather is _hellish, _the people are _dull, _I don't eat during cases so the food is, at best, _irrelevant,_ the scenery is _trying_ to _annoy me." _Sherlock correct.

John wasn't sure if he heard correctly. It sounded like Sherlock was insinuating that the scenery was out to get him. Odd, that.

Sherlock sighed and continued, "And the case is for _Mycroft_." Like that explained all of his disdain. Actually, it kind of did. "What's more: There's not a decent cup of tea to be found in the _entire_ state and don't even get me started on the _accents_!"

"Oi! I rather like the accents." John interjected. "I find them sort of endearing and attractive."

"You would." Sherlock said derisively, eyes narrowing. "Although I think your _attraction_ has far more to do with the daisy-dukes and tank tops the young women around here are wearing than the southern _twang_ of the words coming out of their mouths."

"You know about Daisy Duke, but not the solar system?" John retorted, cheeks burning.

"For the last time: I only store data that's relevant!"

"When were the Dukes of Hazard relevant?" John asked, partly curious and partly just trying to steer this conversation in a different direction.

"A case. Before you. Involving a fascinating string of murders perpetrated by a man obsessed with the show. He left show memorabilia at every scene. Irrelevant now. What is relevant is our current predicament of being stranded _here. _I'm ready to go back to England—back to Baker Street." Sherlock replied distractedly.

"Did you really suggest that the scenery is out to get you?" John thought to ask, suddenly remembering Sherlock's rant.


End file.
